


As Better Fed Than Taught

by Eleke



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, First Time, M/M, Petplay, Puppyplay, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleke/pseuds/Eleke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Dean needs to go away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

NO better Dog e'er kept his Master's Door  
Than honest Snarl, who spar'd nor Rich nor Poor;  
But gave the Alarm, when any one drew nigh,  
Nor let pretended Friends pass fearless by:  
For which reprov'd, as better Fed than Taught,  
He rightly thus expostulates the Fault.

To keep the House from Rascals was my Charge;  
The Task was great, and the Commission large.  
Nor did your Worship e'er declare your Mind,  
That to the begging Crew it was confin'd;  
Who shrink an Arm, or prop an able Knee,  
Or turn up Eyes, till they're not seen, nor see.  
To Thieves, who know the Penalty of Stealth,  
And fairly stake their Necks against your Wealth,  
These are the known Delinquents of the Times,  
And Whips and Tyburn. testify their Crimes.

But since to Me there was by Nature lent  
An exquisite Discerning by the Scent;  
I trace a Flatt'rer, when he fawns and leers,  
A rallying Wit, when he commends and jeers:  
The greedy Parasite I grudging note,  
Who praises the good Bits, that oil his Throat;  
I mark the Lady, you so fondly toast,  
That plays your Gold, when all her own is lost:  
The Knave, who fences your Estate by Law,  
Yet still reserves an undermining Flaw.  
These and a thousand more, which I cou'd tell,  
Provoke my Growling, and offend my Smell.  
\- The Dog And His Master, by Anne Kingsmill Finch

Sometimes Dean needs to go away.

Sam can always sense those times - can tell from the way his shoulders go loose and relax and the knotted-wire ball of tension in his belly unwinds and fades away that he doesn’t mind.

Sam could tell him that he doesn’t need to see inside Dean’s head, that all he has to do is watch. Just wait, and soon Dean would start to tense, get fidgety and restless, like he has just pounds of raw energy he needs to burn. Then his mood will shift, at one moment laughing and making dirty jokes, and then at the slightest thing he’ll turn nasty and sharp.

That’s when Sam would take Dean to their motel room and lets him disappear.

They’re at a diner, a tiny 24 hour deal that they‘re taking advantage of for some 3 AM dinner, and Sam knows that Dean’s time is near.

Dean’s shifting in his seat, drumming his fork and spoon against the table, pausing every now and again to run his hand through his hair quickly, messing it up and glancing around, the whites all around the edges of his eyes visible.

The wait staff probably think that Dean’s high on something, or he craves another fix of whatever he‘s already on, but Sam just drinks his coffee and watches his brother, waiting for a sign for him to drag Dean to their hole-in-the-wall motel room and leash some of that nervous tension.

Eventually they manage to finish their meal without Dean making too much of a nuisance of himself, and it’s when Sam goes to pat Dean on his shoulder, just a friendly, “hey, look at me for a moment,” movement, when Dean snaps.

There’s a sharp growl and a blur of movement, and Dean’s head snaps to the side to nip at Sam’s hand.

The diner was quiet, but now it’s dead silent as people look in shocked surprise at the two of them. Neither of the two pay anyone else any attention, however - both of their eyes are on each other.

Dean looks immediately repentant, but there’s still that wild look in his eyes, and Sam has to react to it. He reaches out and grasps the back of Dean’s neck with the hand Dean nipped and grips firmly. With a small shake he says in a voice just barely loud enough for the two of them to hear even in the near-silent diner, “Bad. Now go out to the car and wait for me.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, either already sensing he’s in enough trouble or beginning to flirt with the headspace that they both are heading inexorably towards. Instead he turns and walks out, and Sam watches through the windows until he sees Dean get into the passenger side and settles in before he turns back to pay for their meal.

Afterward the car ride itself is quiet, but full of that electric feeling between the two of them that always proceeds Dean’s little… vacations. Sam arm is slung across the back of the seat and can’t help but run his fingers through Dean’s hair, scratching a bit behind his ears.

By the time they get to the motel, Dean’s eyes are half-lidded and distant, and Sam knows that they’d gotten there in time before they did anything that might make Dean embarrassed later. As it is, when Sam pulls away to get out of the car Dean makes a tiny whimpery noise in the back of his throat, and looks up at Sam accusingly through the windows as Sam circles around to the back of the car.

Sam pops the trunk, not letting Dean’s pleading eyes bother him, and gets the extra duffel out of the back, the one that contains their kit for just these situations. He closes the trunk, then opens Dean’s door. Dean slides out, and Sam gives him an approving pat on the back when Dean doesn’t sink to all fours once clear of the car - he isn’t too far gone yet, though Sam keeps hold of the collar of Dean’s jacket while they cross the lot to their room.

“Strip,” Are the first words out of Sam’s mouth once they enter the room, even before he closes the door. As soon as the latch clicks shut and Sam’s dead bolting the door, Dean’s already got his jacket and flannel off, and is skinning his T-shirt off and tossing it to the floor. Sam ignores his brother for the time being and sets the bag down on the bed and unzips it.

One by one he takes out the pieces of their kit, sitting on the bed and makes sure that each piece is clean and undamaged since the last time they were used.

Everything in working order, Sam looks over at his brother.

Dean’s stripped down to his boxers and watching Sam, his cock obviously hard with what his body was translating into sexual excitement, even though there would be no sex tonight, not while he’s gone.

“Here, Dean,” Sam commands, patting his knee.

Dean immediately pads over, standing between Sam’s spread legs, his breath already heavy and limbs trembling with leashed excitement. Sam takes the first two items off of the bed and straps the knee pads on. They’re probably the least visually appealing piece of their kit, but the most functional. The point isn’t to punish Dean, and scraping his legs up on the short, filthy carpet was guaranteed to hurt.

Sam taps Dean’s hip, and Dean immediately sinks to his knees, shifts just a little as the pads fall into familiar place.

Sam tugs on one of Dean’s biceps until he offers up first one hand and then the other for Sam to slip into leather mitts. They are soft and padded on the inside, cradling Dean’s fist comfortably. On the outside the hard leather is shaped like paws, with rubber pads on the bottom and small blunt nails.

Sam doesn’t drop Dean’s hands, instead tugs up a little, guiding Dean to sit up straight. Dean sits up, mittened hands tucked up close by his shoulders, and Sam buckles him into his harness. The belt with attached tail to goes on last - they have other types, comfortable lightweight ones with foam cores that stay in one position, another that hangs behind him limply, but today isn’t a day for those. Today Dean’s tail is a foot and a half in length, furred the same dirty blond as Dean’s hair, and has a wire core that makes it bounce and sway with every movement of Dean’s back side.

Sam runs his hand through Dean’s hair once more, and with his other he picks up Dean’s collar.

The collar isn‘t fancy, or anyway different than a thousand that a person could find on any dog, but as soon as Sam fastens the thick black leather around Dean’s neck he could almost see the last of Dean leaving, and Cliff taking his place.

Sam ruffles Cliff’s fur on top of his head, and Cliff’s expression becomes open and dopey, leaning into the rough caresses.

“Good boy,” Sam murmurs, grinning. “Yeah, you’re my good boy.” He stops suddenly, and Cliff freezes in the same position, seeming not to realize for a beat that the scritches had ceased. Shaking himself, Cliff straightens, looking up at Sam with his mouth dropped and tongue lolling in a doggy grin.

“Wanna play?” Sam asks, hold up one of their toys - a rubber bone that bounces and squeaks enticingly when thrown. Cliff likes the idea, giving a little hop back, rump raised and tail wagging furiously. Sam tosses the toy across the room and Cliff is after it like a shot, all fours thudding across the room and nearly overshooting where the toy had landed.

Cliff snaps the toy up and bounds back to Sam, and Sam has to fight the puppy for the toy, Cliff growling playfully and not releasing until Sam gives a particularly sharp tug.

Sam tosses the toy again, not minding how the toy and his fingers are covered with dog slobber, and looses count how many times he throws it until Cliff finally collapses in one corner, chewing contentedly on his bone.

Sam gets up and pours water from the bathroom’s sink into Cliff’s water dish, and after a moment as Sam’s getting settled in with a movie on HBO, Cliff drags himself over to lap the water up. Thirst slaked, he jumps onto Sam’s bed and curls up at his side, sighing contentedly as Sam begins to stroke along his flanks and thread his hands through his fur.

After a little while of relaxing with his dog, Sam slides off the bed, and Cliff is immediately alert, ears pricked forward with curiosity. Sam pats Cliff on the head once with a quiet ‘stay,’ and Cliff settles back down on the bed, but he watches as Sam brushes his teeth and prepares for bed.

Once Sam finishes, turns off the light and TV and slides under the sheet, he could see Cliff still watching, face pale and eyes glinting in the meager light slipping through the broken slats of the blinds.

“C’mon boy,” Sam says, patting his belly, and Cliff is suddenly right there, lapping at Sam’s face with doggy kisses and slobbering over them both. Sam laughs and holds Cliff’s face still just long enough for him to plant a kiss between his adoring eyes and gives him a small push away, scratching behind Cliff’s ears until the dog stretches out across the bed, head resting on Sam’s belly.

Sam unlaces Cliff’s paws and pulled them off, tossing them over the side of the bed, running his fingers through Cliffs fur and makes soothing noises at the pup’s protesting whine.

Slowly they fall asleep, Sam caressing the dog’s fur, and Cliff limp and content snugged up close to his Master


	2. Chapter 1

It started with breakfast.

Sam looked at Dean over the laptop and said, “I found us something.”

They were sitting in a booth at a forgettable diner in downriver Michigan, close to Detroit in a bedroom community in what could be considered a suburb but still had that urban feel. The diner itself was squeezed into the corner of a row of buildings, the only windows at the short ends of the long rectangle that made up the place. But the food was good, with heaping servings, and Dean was in heaven as he inhaled an omelet made just right.

“Hit me,” Dean said around the mouthful of egg and sausage.

Sam ignored his brother’s lack of manners with an ease borne of practice and said, “Looks like there was plans to clear out a wooded area in Ohio. The problem is, after the first day of work things started to go wrong - brand-new equipment breaking down, things getting lost, paperwork misplaced. Now two workers have gone missing. At first they were blaming environmentalists - apparently there was a protest against clearing the land, but no one’s taking the blame, and all of their suspects have air-tight alibis.”

“So, you have an idea what‘s going on?” Dean asked.

Sam sat back in his seat and shrugged. “Looks to me like a pretty classic faerie curse. The tampering with machinery and misplacing of tools were a warning.”

“And since no one was listening, they’re moving on to kidnapping.” Dean said, picking up the thread.

“Exactly.”

Dean grinned and sipped from his coffee. “Looks like we’re going on a bug hunt!” When Sam looked to protest, Dean held up his hand for peace. “…After we find and rescue the workers. We’ll find out what’s going on, look around the construction site a bit, then go from there. Now hurry up and eat, wherever it’s at, if it’s in Ohio we can make it in a few hours if we hurry.”

\--------

The construction site was still busy by the time they arrived, so they spent the rest of the day in the library, looking up local legends and not finding much that seemed pertinent to the case. No strange disappearances connected to the woods, no malicious activity with unknown causes, for the most part whatever was living in the woods, fairies or no, seemed quite happy to live and let live until their home started being destroyed.

When the library closed for the night they swung by a restaurant and grabbed a bite to eat before, finally, iron nails secure on their pockets just in case, they headed to the construction site.

The air was still thick with exhaust when they pulled up, though all the machinery was turned off for the night, and Sam’s nose wrinkled at the smell even as he clambered over the fence intended to keep people out. They didn’t bother looking around the equipment for any signs of faeries or whatever malicious beastie that might be at fault - the grounds were too torn up to give any concrete evidence of what they were dealing with. Instead they pulled out flashlights and started to circle the still thickly overgrown woods in a shrinking spiral, eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary.

The woods were by no means large, the map Sam had pulled up earlier shown it to be roughly five acres, and after half an hour of stumbling over tree roots and getting clothes and hair tangled in spindly tree branches they were beginning to reach the center.

They were as alert as ever, but a racketing tension made them jumpy, though they suppressed those instincts as much as they could without completely ignoring them. Being trigger happy helps no one, their father’s long-ago lesson had taught them. But completely dismissing your instincts can kill you - when your gut says something’s wrong, listen to it; it’s probably right.

The sound of a dry crack, like a dead branch breaking under heavy pressure alerted Sam and he froze, pulling his gun from it’s inner pants holster and shining his flashlight in the direction of the sound, telling from the lack of movement at his side that Dean had also frozen.

Ears and eyes peeled for any sign of movement they stayed still for a long moment. Eyes still focused off into the distance, Sam took a couple slow steps forward.

Four things suddenly happened in quick succession - first Sam heard Dean say, “Wait, Sam! Shit!” then someone, Dean, slamming into his side, pushing him down and into a bush, as Sam fell he glanced down where Dean was standing, saw a faerie ring that he’d almost stepped into, and Dean’s foot crossing the border of the ring before he was hopelessly tangled in the bush.

Cursing and flailing, Sam managed to extract himself from the clinging arms of the plant and leapt to his feet, immediately searching out his brother.

At first he was unable to make out what he was looking at - there was an indefinable shape in the middle of the ring, just barely visible in the moonlight. Sam saw his flashlight on the ground, miraculously still working, and grabbed it, shining it on the lump in the middle of the ring.

At first all he could see was Dean’s jacket - his lighter one, rather than the heavy leather. Then as he panned the light over the lump he made out a pair of jeans, and empty boots. Then the lump lurched, and Sam was face-to-face with a dog.

They watched each other for a long moment until Sam tilted his head and said, “…Dean? Is that you?”

The dog let out a noise that was half whine and half groan and nodded.

“…Well, crap.”

Dean huffed in agreement.

Sam lowered himself to the ground, running a hand through his hair in exasperation and looking at Dean, who was shifting from side to side and looking uncomfortable.

“Well, you might as well come out of there so I can take a look at you,” Sam said. Dean nodded again and stepped forward, dragging his clothes with him. Once he got within arm’s reach Sam couldn’t help but reach out and bury his fingers in the thick fur at Dean’s neck and scratching. Dean leaned into the petting for just a moment before physically shaking himself out of it and backing up, growling softly.

Sam raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t help it. Now come here for a moment.”

Dean eyed Sam.

“Please? I want to see if the faeries left a mark or something - maybe they left a clue to change you back.”

Dean huffed and walked forward and Sam shown the light around Dean’s face, apologizing when he accidentally shown it in Dean’s eyes. Sam tugged on the jacket Dean was still wearing even after his transformation and said, “We’re going to have to get this off of you, Dean. I don’t see anything yet, and getting you out of human clothes will probably be easier on you, anyway.”

Dean obviously had to think about it for a moment - comfort warring with human tendencies to be dressed when outdoors, but then he nodded. Sam helped him get his jacket and then shirts off - threading skinny dog legs through the sleeves and pulling the shirt over Dean’s head. His pants and underwear were easier - they were mostly pushed down by Dean’s tail by then, and just slipped off.

Running his hands through Dean’s fur, he still couldn’t find anything odd, Dean’s recent furriness notwithstanding.

Sitting back with a sigh, Sam shook his head. “Nothing. At least we’ve got proof that we’re dealing with faeries. Let’s head back and see if we can find some way to get them to move and change you back.” Sam thought for a minute and added, “How much you want to bet the missing workers stumbled into a ring, too?”

Dean huffed, nodded, and took a couple steps towards the edge of the forest, where they’d parked the Impala. He looked behind him and huffed again, as if asking Sam what was taking him so long.

“Yeah yeah, just one second.” Sam gathered Dean’s clothes together, being careful with the weapons Dean had stashed on himself before his transformation. His boots were left behind in the ring, and Sam used a long stick to fish them out. Bundle in hand, he followed his brother’s smaller form out of the woods and towards the car.

The fence was an obstacle, but not for long once Sam hopped it and returned with wire cutters, ripping open an area of the fence big enough for Dean to squeeze through.

Dean started to circle around the car to the driver’s seat before he paused.

“I don’t think you can exactly drive like that,” Sam said softly.

Dean, head lowered, padded to the passenger side door and looked up at Sam expectantly. Sam fished the keys out of Dean’s clothes and opened the door, watching as Dean clambered up onto the seat and sat down.

Grinning, Sam said, “I don’t think I have to tell you to be careful not to scratch the leather, do I?”

Dean growled and Sam closed the door.

\--------

The motel room Sam paid for had two beds, as per usual. Sam didn’t anticipate Dean being a dog for more than a couple days at most, and it was easier putting a room with two queens on the card than changing later. The motel had a ‘no pets’ policy, but they managed to sneak Dean in without anybody seeming to notice.

As soon as Sam closed the door behind him Dean jumped up onto the bed closest to the door and sprawled out, sighing heavily.

“Yeah, that didn’t exactly go as well as it could have, did it?” Sam said, tossing his bag next to his own bed. Sam pulled out his laptop and immediately started searching faerie curses and lore while Dean napped across the room.

At one point Dean rolled over, shook himself, and padded into the bathroom. Sam heard the sound of a faucet running and, curious, got up to see what Dean was doing.

Dean was up on his hind legs and was stretched forward, drinking the water straight from the faucet with sweeps from his tongue. Once he was finished, he pawed at the handles until the water stopped and dropped back onto all fours.

In the brightly lit bathroom, Sam took a moment to examine what sort of dog Dean had turned into.

Whatever breed Dean was, looked almost like a German Shepherd, only his fur was more along the lines of Dean’s natural hair color, and his ears flopped over instead of sticking up. He was medium to large in size, the top of his head a little under Sam’s hip.

“I think you’re a mutt,” Sam mused aloud. At Dean’s low irritated bark Sam backpedaled. “I don’t mean that in a bad way!” he reassured. “Mixed breed dogs are usually healthier and more mentally sound than pure breeds.”

Dean looked slightly appeased. At least until Sam continued. “So I really don’t understand why you would be a mix.” Dean growled, and Sam started backing up out of the bathroom. “Maybe a Poodle would have been better. Or a Chihuahua. Something little and yappy.” Dean gave a short bark and lunged for Sam’s leg. Laughing, Sam jerked back and Dean aimed for the other leg, growling throatily but wagging his tail. “Or one of those dogs that look like walking mops - all pretty hair we can tie up in a bow for you,” Sam continued, laughing and dodging Dean’s snapping jaws.

Dean chased Sam around the hotel room, over and around the beds, knocking one of the lamps off of the nightstand, never vocalizing over growls that were a counterpoint to Sam’s laughs.

Eventually both of them collapsed, breathless, on one of the beds, Dean’s tail still wagging limply.

After a moment once Sam caught his breath he said, “Changing you back might be more difficult than I thought.” Dean lifted his head and looking at Sam, expression inquisitive. Sam repressed a smile at the head-cocked doggy face and continued. “It looks like each curse has it’s own way to break it. In one story a woman just had to wait until the next solstice. There’s another instance in which a young girl was cursed, and her brother had to rub his feet on a stone, walk down a hill backwards, pick the biggest rose in a witch’s garden, and then hide the flower under his sister’s bed all in one night without her seeing it.”

Dean groaned and flopped back down onto the bed. Sam couldn’t help but reach out and scratch him behind his ears, and as he dug his fingers in Dean closed his eyes and sighed.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “It looks like we’ll have to actually get the faeries to reverse the curse themselves. We just have to figure out something they‘ll want in exchange for lifting it for us.”

\--------

Three days later Sam and Dean returned to the woods, Dean slipping through the hole in the fence the same as when they left. Sam had a plastic grocery bag in one hand, and he let Dean lead the way to the center of the woods while he tried to keep the bag from catching on anything and tearing.

Sam knew they reached the ring by Dean’s sudden tensing up, his hackles rising and a low growl bubbling out of his throat. Sam flashed his light in the direction Dean’s nose was pointed and highlighted the fairy ring from a couple nights ago. Setting the flashlight on the ground so that it was lighting the ring from the side, he reached inside his bag for the first of his supplies.

Careful not to touch ground inside the ring with his bare fingers, he placed first a small saucer he’s bought earlier that day from a local superstore within the boundaries of the ring, next to that a bowl bought from the same place. Next he unwrapped a sweet roll he grabbed on the way up and set that on top of the plate, and poured from the pint of milk that was the last thing in the bag into the bowl, down to the last drop. Balling up the empty bag and trash and shoving the lot into his jacket pocket (it wouldn’t do to offer the faeries a gift and then leave trash laying around their home) he sat back with Dean to wait.

Sam’s ass was just about to get numb from sitting on the cold ground when the first sign of movement had him tensing in anticipation, and Dean freezing, ears pricked forward. Tiny lights, there and then fading out of sight, easily mistaken for fireflies only in colors no firefly ever dreamed of and in weather far too cold for them slowly making their way towards the ring and the offering within, fragile humanoid bodies backlit and barely visible. They made no noise as delicate wings fluttered, no buzz or thrum of quick movement, and as one passed close enough for Sam to touch, he felt only the faintest of breezes chill his skin.

They didn’t dawdle - immediately going for either the milk or the pastry, taking a bite or a sip and then flying off. Little by little the level of milk in the bowl lessened, and the pastry disappeared one pixy-sized bite after another.

Sam tried to not let his disappointment show - the pixies, for that’s what the lights were, had power of their own, but nothing that could reverse a curse like what Dean was under. Nor did any have the commanding ability to stop the tampering of the construction equipment, or to hold off their passive-aggressive attack completely. Pixies were good at following orders, but none of them would be able to come up with the wherewithal to launch an attack on humans.

Once it seemed the last of the pixies had come and gone, he started to rise to his feet and was about to suggest to Dean they try again the next night when the appearance of one last creature stopped him in his tracks.

Sam couldn’t tell if it was male or female, having no discernable genitalia on it’s naked grey-skinned body. Though it walked hunched-over, if it rose to it’s full height it would nearly stand to Sam’s knee. It entered the ring slowly in it’s shambling gait and picked up the bowl with both spindly hands, tilting it and drinking the last of the milk in long noisy swallows. When it finished that and started tearing into the sweet roll, Dean looked over his shoulder to shoot Sam a face that clearly read, ‘Well, you going to start this show, or should I?’

Sam nodded and shifted forward, clearing his throat. He thought about standing to show the elf respect, but decided that looming over the diminutive creature wouldn’t get their conversation off on the right foot. “Excuse me…” sir? Madam? What was the right pronoun to use? Erring on the side of caution, he skipped titles for the time being. “My name is-”

“I know who you are,” the elf said, in a voice remarkably clear considering it was talking with it‘s mouth full. “I know what you’re here for.” It turned one vibrant, pumpkin-orange eye on the two Winchesters. “Your brother stumbled into our ring, and now you want us to change him back to how he was before. Am I correct?”

“Um. Yeah,” Sam started, but the creature talked over him.

“And you think offering us cake and drink is enough, do you?” It said in that same smooth conversational tone it started with. “Boy, me and my kind are older than dreams, we traveled here with those who respected us long before your grandfather first squalled for his mother’s tit, and you think a gift as pitiful as this would make me even consider lifting your brother’s curse? That is an insult, and the plan of an idiot.”

Ignoring Dean’s thumping tail and apparent mirth at someone calling Sam stupid even in such a situation, Sam shot back with, “If the food and drink wasn’t a good enough gift, what about getting you your forest back?”

The elf narrowed its eyes and said, “Our methods may be slow, but without their machines those humans cannot clear land, and eventually they’ll tire.”

Sam shook his head and said, “That wont work forever. They’ll just bring more and more machines, and more people. Eventually they’ll figure out ways to get the job done, and you’ll be out of a home. Unless you agree to change my brother back.”

“Explain.”

Sam reached in his pants pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to the elf, pointing at a highlighted section. “This is a sample of the town charter. When it was first settled and the charter written, they made sure to include a clause restricting the amount of developed land - more than likely, the people who came over with you wanted you and the others to have plenty of woodlands to live, just so something like this wouldn’t happen.”

“If this is true,” the elf said after eyeing the paper for a long moment. “Then why have they started?”

“Because not many people know about it,” Sam said. “There was actually a lot of people protesting clearing these woods, but none of them knew about the clause or used it in their arguments. Once the word gets out, the construction work will end.”

“Completely?”

Sam paused, and in the interests of full disclosure admitted, “They may build a walking path through your woods and turn it into a park, and the area they‘ve cleared already will probably be turned into a parking lot; this is public property, and the reason they started on the construction is because nothing was being done with it. But the majority of the land will be untouched, and you wont have to worry about having to pack up and move completely.”

The elf thought for a moment and nodded. “Very well.”

Sam nearly collapsed with relief and Dean jumped to his legs, tail wagging fit to fall off. “You’ll change him back now?”

“No.”

Sam rose to his feet, screw politeness, and stepped up to the very edge of the ring, Dean at his side and snarling with his lips pulled back from sharp teeth. “But I just saved your woods! I’m stopping them from turning this place into a parking lot, and you’re not going to change him back? What the hell are you getting at?”

The elf didn’t seem in any way intimidated by Sam’s height and just eyed him with a steady gaze during the entirety of Sam’s outburst. “If you are finished… I never said that he’ll never return to his true form. I need proof that my woods will no longer be at risk; in two weeks, if what you said is true, then he will return to what he was.”

Sam closed his eyes as his heart rate began to slow, adrenaline bleeding out of him. “And the workers who disappeared?”

“The same - they will awaken in their own beds, no knowledge of what had happened.”

Sam looked down at Dean and raised an eyebrow, asking without words Dean’s opinion. Dean looked up at him with brown eyes so different than his natural green that it was jarring. After a moment Dean nodded, huffing out a low bark.

“Alright,” Sam said. “That’s a deal, then.”

The elf nodded, said, “Then it’s settled. Two weeks from now he’ll return to his true form. Our business is done,” and disappeared.

Just that. No pops, or bangs, or glittery light or any other theatrics. One moment he was there, and then next gone without a trace.

Sam looked down at Dean. Dean looked up at Sam.

“Well,” Sam said. “Two weeks as a dog isn’t too bad, is it? D’you want to get a burger, boy? Huh? Do ya?”

Woof, said Dean.

“Jerk.”


	3. Interlude

Sam wakes with a warm, wet heat enveloping his cock. His hips give a lazy lurch up into the heat and both hears and feels Dean choke on his thick length. Sam lets his hips fall back down to the bed and, after the barest of hesitations, Dean resumes his ministrations.

Sam opens his eyes and looks down the bed and gets an eyeful of Dean, his lips already pink and swollen from sucking on Sam’s cock, long lashes hiding his eyes. He’s slid Sam’s boxers off without waking him, and there were just miles and miles of skin between the two of them.

Sam reaches down and cups either side of Dean’s jaw, lifting him up slowly off of his cock, Dean slurping and sucking the whole way until he pulls off with a wet pop. Sam looks down at Dean’s green, green eyes and grins. “Good morning to you, too,” he says, and tugs Dean up so that they’re face-to-face, Dean straddling Sam’s lap.

Dean quirks an eyebrow down at him and replies, “Hey, if you’re going to turn down a good-morning blowjob, don’t mind me. I’ll take my hot little ass and get some coffee, if that‘s how you wanna play it.”

Sam grabs Dean’s hips and grounds said hot little ass against his hard-on, feeling the tacky spit covering his length making him stick just the slightest bit. “I got other plans for this ass other than watching it walk away,” Sam says, his voice husky with sleep and growing desire.

Some time during the morning or late at night while Sam was asleep, Dean had taken off the rest of his puppy gear and had thrown the lot onto the tiny table in the room, Cliff gone and set aside like a shed skin, so his skin is free for Sam’s roaming fingers as he ghosts over the swell of muscle, traces scars with his fingers, every one of them known to his hands, even if he doesn’t know the story behind them.

Most of them he does - here, a vampire in Oregon. Across his left bicep a Black Dog bite. A particularly nasty one on his thigh when he fell out of a tree climbing after peaches one summer when he was bored and hungry. A canvas of skin that had been wiped clean and then scarred anew with the harsh brushstrokes of life.

He takes a moment to rub his thumb over the tattoo over Dean’s sternum - one mark from before Hell that remained, and one Sam shared.

Dean rolls his eyes. “You really need to work on your dirty talk, because that? Was lame.”

Sam growls and flips them over, pushes Dean down into the mattress and holds Dean’s hands above his head by the wrists with both hands.

Dean looks dazed, his eyes wide and dilated. “Okay, never mind. This is good.”

Sam grins and undulates his hips, pressing his erection into Dean’s own. They both shiver and Dean closes his eyes, arching his body up and silently begging for more.

Sam is all to willing to oblige.

He ducks his head and nuzzles Dean’s throat, the scruff of Dean’s morning whiskers tingling his lips and scraping his cheeks and nose. Dean makes a low, punched noise and tilts his head back, his legs spreading to bracket Sam’s body. Unable to lower his hands, he makes due touching Sam where he can with his feet, caressing Sam’s strong calves and instep.

Sam rolls his hips, slowly, and pulls away from Dean’s neck to breathe. Dean lowers his head and mouths the only place he could reach, in this case Sam’s ear - trailing the top curve with his tongue, puffing warm air with every breath into the delicate whorls and arches of Sam’s ear.

Sam shudders and has to take Dean’s mouth, sealing their lips together and plunging his tongue in a deep, claiming kiss. Dean doesn’t lie there passively - he kisses back just as hard, sliding his tongue along side Sam’s and stroking. Sam had once seen Dean tie a knot in a cherry stem with just his tongue, and now that he is reminded of that tongue’s agility he groans into Dean’s mouth.

Dean makes a face at getting an up-close blast of morning breath but bends his knees, opening himself as much as he could and humping up.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean pants, purposely breathing into Sam’s face and feeling vindicated when Sam winces at the mix of morning breath and the scent of dick that just got blown in his face. “You gonna fuck me, or you just going to lay there?”

Sam lifts one hand off Dean’s wrist after giving a small push, a reminder to stay where it’s at. He trails his hand down Dean’s body, tweaks a nipple and makes Dean twist and gasp pleasingly, drags his short nails and leaves faint white lines that darken to light red while he watches. When he reaches Dean’s hip he reaches around to grab Dean’s thigh, pulling it up so that Dean’s leg is in the air, his hole bare to the world.

With one last farewell kiss, Sam sits up, releasing the other trapped wrist and braces Dean’s raised leg on his shoulder. He takes a moment to admire Dean’s body, stretched out before him like a buffet feast that is all for him. Dean, his face and neck flushed red with lust that spreads to his collar, who, as Sam watches, takes his hands and rests them on the pillow above his head, one hand grasping the wrist of the other, who watches Sam from under those long eyelashes, who’s hard cock lay next to Sam’s, a bead of precome already seeping out and following the curve of his cockhead down to his lightly haired belly.

Beautiful.

Holding Dean’s raised leg up with one hand, he reaches with the other down past the swell of Dean’s balls, down to the tight hole, where his fingers come back wet with lube. Dean had already prepared himself, and Sam has to close his eyes tight as the mental image of Dean, kneeling on their bed and trying to be quiet as he plunged his own fingers up his ass, hoping, expecting to be fucked flickers through his head. Sam’s fingers tease Dean’s stretched hole, getting his fingers wet with the lube around there.

Releasing Dean’s leg to lean in close, Sam whispers harshly into Dean’s ear, “You’re so wet for me, aren’t you?”

Dean gasped and his hips surged up, and Sam glances down just in time to see a blurt of precome squeeze out of Dean’s dick.

“How long did you fuck yourself with your fingers until you just couldn’t take any more?” Sam asks, and slides two fingers right in. “How many fingers did you squeeze into your tight hole until you realized you needed a big cock to fill you up? My cock.”

Sam looks at the bedside table and sees the tube of lube Dean had used on himself there. He grabs it and, taking his fingers most of the way out of Dean but keeping the tips of them in there, fingers spread, he pours some more over his fingers, not caring if he makes a mess everywhere. They’ll be moving on soon enough, and housekeeping can deal with it.

“You’re like a bitch in heat, aren’t you?” Sam says, plunging his fingers back in with a wet squelch. “So wet for me, and jumping me before I even wake up.”

“God, Sam,” Dean gasps. “Please…”

Sam shoves his fingers in punishingly hard, making Dean groan and arch his back. “No,” Sam growls. “You want to ask for something, you do it right. You act like a bitch, you go through with it.”

Dean gulps, and Sam follows the motion with his eyes. They’re skirting the no-fly zone, and Sam knows it. Both of their limits are coming up fast, but Sam can’t help himself, and if Dean doesn’t put the breaks on it…

“Please,” Dean gasps out. “Master.”

Sam releases a heavy breath, cock jerking as he adds another finger, spreading Dean open with three now and pistons his fingers faster. “What? What do you want?”

“Please, Master. Fuck me.”

Sam licks his lips and, heart pounding, asks, “You want to be fucked on your back like a person, or you wanna be fucked on your belly, like the bitch you are?”

He barely has the words out before Dean says, “Belly. Oh God, please Master…”

Sam leans in for a quick kiss, nothing more than a quick peck on the cheek before he’s withdrawing his fingers and helping Dean turn over, raising Dean’s hips while Dean keeps his shoulders and head down, arms crossed under his pillow.

Without another word between them, Sam lines his cock up to Dean’s hole and presses forward, hissing between his teeth at the warm, slick cling of Dean’s ass around his cock. They both groan, Dean’s muffled where he’s biting his pillow. Sam would love to nibble the bit of ear he can see, or nuzzle into the sweaty nape of Dean’s neck, but he wasn’t quite as flexible as Dean and knows he wouldn’t be able to fuck Dean’s ass if he were bent over like his brother is.

Sam slowly pushes forward, sheathing his cock in Dean’s body. Once he bottoms out he takes a moment to just breathe, patting the side of Dean’s ass approvingly, like a dog who’d done well in a different situation and deserved a reward.

“Good boy,” he says, and starts fucking him. Sam watches as Dean pants beneath him, trying to smother his noises in the pillow when clenching his jaw to keep them in just doesn’t work. Every now and then he spits out curses, demands for Sam to go faster, harder, damnit, he’s not gonna break, fuck him!

Sam obeys, deepening his thrusts, fucking Dean deeper than before. Dean’s curses fade to shuddering gasps, and the only sound in the room is their harsh breaths and the wet, slick sounds where they’re joined.

Reaching around Dean’s hip, Sam palms Dean’s cock and pumps his fist, groaning when Dean’s body clamps down on him as Dean snaps his head up, groaning loud and lewd as his cock was finally, finally touched. Sam can feel his own orgasm building and he strips Dean’s cock faster, pumping his hand with a twisting motion at the end.

“Jesus, fuck, Sammy,” Dean moans. Then, “God, go faster!” Sam speeds his hand until it’s moving in a blur until Dean capitulates, shooting in Sam’s hand, splattering on his belly and the bed beneath them.

Sam hisses at the tight clamp of Dean’s body as he comes, fucking down a couple more thrusts until he follows his brother, spilling deep in Dean’s body, flooding his insides. He gives a couple shallow thrusts, riding out the sensations until, with a sigh, he withdraws his slowly-softening cock. His limbs trembling with aftershocks, he collapses to the bed and just breathes.


	4. Chapter 2

“You’re kiddin’ me,” Bobby said, looking down at the furred form of Dean with an expression of resigned incredulousness, as if he couldn’t believe that anyone other than one of the Winchester brothers could get in that sort of situation.

“Sorry to tell you, Bobby,” Sam said. “But it’s true. It’s only going to be for a couple weeks, though, then he’ll be back to normal.”

Bobby fixed Sam with a leery eye. “And I suppose you’ll be wantin’ to hole up here until then, huh?”

Sam gave Bobby with what Dean kept calling his “puppy-dog face” and said, “As soon as he’s got two legs we’ll be out of your hair, I promise.” When Bobby still didn’t look persuaded he added, a little desperately, “Bobby, I wont be able to stand being cooped up in a motel room or a car for two weeks when he’s like this. He’s discovered licking himself!”

Dean barked happily as Bobby shuddered and said, “Alright, but only those two weeks. I don’t need you two underfoot all the damn time.”

Sam grinned and clapped Bobby on the back. “Thanks, Bobby. And I’m sure Dean appreciates the chance to stretch his legs, too.”

Dean wagged his tail in apparent agreement.

“As long as he’s housebroken, Dean can ‘appreciate’ all he wants,” Bobby said, and Sam drank to that, taking a pull off of the beer Bobby had slid to him when he and Dean first pulled up. Watching Dean, who was sitting on the porch at their feet and looking out into the salvage yard, Bobby said. “You know, I’d almost say it’s unfair how lucky you two boys seem to be, if it weren’t for the fact you earned it ten times over.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked softly, wondering at where the older man’s mind was taking him.

“That brother of yours,” Bobby continued. “How many people can get a chance to just not be a person for a while? Dogs, they don’t care if their hair‘s pretty, or if the bills’ve gotten paid, or who the damn president is. As long as they’ve got a belly full’a food and someone to give them a nice scratch behind the ears, they’re set.”

Sam was quiet for a long moment, digesting what Bobby said. Even Dean looked thoughtful. “Bobby, that was beautiful,” Sam said.

“Ah, shaddup,” Bobby sneered.

“No, really,” Sam said, all wide-eyed innocence. “You should write for Hallmark. Maybe something for birthdays next.”

“I don’t need this,” Bobby grumbled and turned around, retreating back into his own home.

Sam, grinning, took a seat on the top step and drank again from his beer. Dean stepped forward with a tell-tale click of claws on hardwood and stretched out next to Sam. Sam scratched at Dean’s neck, who by this point had gotten used to Sam’s need to touch and submitted with a roll of his eyes.

They sat there for a long moment, breathing in the late-afternoon sun. It was one of the first nicer days of the year, and both of them soaked up the chance to just relax outside for a while.

Sam finished his beer and, not looking at Dean, said, “He’s right, you know.” He could sense Dean looking at him and continued on, refusing to catch Dean’s eye. “You’re given a chance to do what few people ever get a chance to do - to just let go. You don’t have to worry here - we’re probably safer here than anywhere else in the world from anything supernatural. You can just… be a dog. Chase some squirrels, dig some holes, hell, spend a whole afternoon licking yourself if you want.”

Sam felt a nudging at his side, and Dean withdrew his paw once he got Sam’s attention and gave a sort of whining groan, then nudged Sam again.

“I’ll be alright if that’s what you’re worried about, Dean,” Sam assured, predicting what Dean was trying to say. “Bobby’s got that huge library of his, so it’ll be a sort of vacation for me, too. There’s worse things to have to sit out of hunting for a while for.” He stood up and brushed off the back of his jeans, picked up the empty bottle. “Anyway, I’m heading inside before it starts getting cold again. You coming?”

Dean nodded, and Sam inexplicably missed whatever smart-ass remark Dean would normally have given at Sam’s statement. He could almost hear it; “Aw, is it getting too cold, Samantha? Don’t worry, maybe your boyfriend will let you wear his sweater if you ask pretty.” Instead, predictably, Dean was silent.

Sam found himself hesitating, not wanting to be too far away from his brother all of a sudden. It was silly, he knew - he just got done telling him about how safe they both were at the salvage yard, and suddenly he couldn’t stand being away from his older brother.

“Will you be okay out here on your own?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded.

“You aren’t hungry or anything, are you?”

Dean groaned and shook his head.

“Will you be able to get the door okay? You still have problems getting the whole twisting motion down…”

Bark!

“Okay, okay, I’m going,” Sam said, capitulating. “You know where to find me if you get hungry or whatever.”

Dean woofed softly and faced out into the yard, ignoring Sam in favor of meditatively looking out into the middle distance.

Sam let himself into the house, determined not to worry for his brother and what the contemplative expression on his canine face just may mean.

\--------

Sam was awoken in the middle of the night by a strange pitched noise just on the other side of his bedroom door. There was dead silence for a long moment afterward, only broken by the sounds of the house settling. As soon as Sam convinced himself that he’d imagined the noise it started again, this time accompanied by a scratching sound low to the ground.

“Dean?” Sam said muzzily, coming to the realization where the noise was coming from. The whining became more strident at the sound of his voice and Sam rolled to his feet, sliding off the slightly too small guest bed and facing the door, the berretta that was never too far away clutched in his hand. He quickly opened the door, prepared to see Dean injured or sick and needing help, because why else would he be seeking Sam out when he had his own room just down the hall?

Instead, the moment he opened the door Dean backed up just a step, looking up at Sam with his tongue lolling in a doggy smile and his tail wagging up a storm, perfectly fine.

Sam stared at him, unable to process Dean’s apparently well being against his adrenaline-spiked worry. “Dean?” he said. “What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

Dean just looked up at him, head slightly tilted to one side.

Sam sighed and shifted to the side, settling from his tense and ready position. That left a gap between the side of the door and his legs, and Dean took the chance to charge through it, nearly knocking Sam over in his rush.

By the time Sam had turned around, Dean was curled up in a tight ball at the foot of Sam’s bed.

“What are you doing, Dean?” Sam sighed, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. Dean didn’t give any indication that he heard, closing his eyes and giving all indication that he was going to sleep then and there, Sam’s bed or no.

Sam sighed again and gave up trying to get sense out of Dean so late at night and slid into bed, pulling the thin covers over him. It took a bit of careful shifting to keep from kicking Dean, and in the end his legs wound up at the very edge of the bed, threatening to fall off, Dean a warm weight on the other side.

Sam would never admit it, but dog or not, Dean sleeping in the same room as he was comfortingly familiar ground. Even in Stanford while he had a roommate he still had difficulty sleeping, the cadence of breathing at the other side of the room was off, there was no underlying scent of gun oil that eventually soaked into everything they’d owned growing up, even the thick mat that was his dorm bed just felt wrong, and Sam had slept on nearly every type of cheap bedding at some point or another in his life.

Even though his lungs were smaller and breaths shallower, he was still Dean. Even though he was covered in fur and hadn’t taken a bath in days, he still smelled like Sam’s brother, if wilder and more earthy.

It was like having a doppelganger of Dean in the room with him - so familiar, but just a little off in the ways that mattered.

With that pleasant thought in mind, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

\--------

Sam woke alone in his bed (and how odd was the thought that he half expected to wake up with Dean in bed with him?) with the smell of bacon cooking in the air.

After doing a quick version of his usual morning ablutions Sam, feeling a bit more awake, headed downstairs where Bobby was putting the finishing touches on breakfast. Immediately Sam saw where Dean had disappeared off to - he was sitting on the kitchen floor, just barely out of range of being underfoot as Bobby cooked, ears perked and looking as attentive as Sam’s ever seen him.

Bobby himself was poking at scrambled eggs in the skillet, bacon cooling on a plate on the counter next to the stove, dripping grease on the paper towel the were sitting on, toast waiting at the side. Sam didn’t bother asking Bobby to fix his eggs in the way he’d preferred - he learned long ago that Bobby, if he cooks for you, would make things they way he liked them, and if you wanted different you can get your ass up and make it yourself.

“’Morning, Bobby,” Sam said, sitting at the table but keeping an eye on Dean. Sam would be the first to admit that Dean’s had a love of food that bordered on the freaky, but his fawning over Bobby while the older man cooked was something completely new. “What’s up?”

“Acting like a damn maid and making you idjits your damn breakfast,” Bobby growled. Sam repressed the instinct to correct Bobby that maids didn’t, in fact, cook, as he continued. “You’re lucky you got your ass out of bed; I was going to give your share to your brother. At least one of you appreciates a good home-cooked meal.”

“Thanks for breakfast, Bobby,” Sam interjected, and since they were on the subject of Dean, turned the subject over to his strange behavior. “Speaking of, what’s going on with him?”

Dean hadn’t even glanced over since Sam entered the kitchen, just flicked an ear momentarily in his direction when he first spoke up.

Bobby glanced over his shoulder at Sam and broke off a small piece of fried-crunchy bacon and lifted it in Dean’s direction. Dean immediately jumped up to all fours, licking his chops.

“Sit!” Bobby commanded, and before Sam could say anything Dean was rump down, eyes fixed on the bacon. “Lie down!” Bobby said next, and Dean on his belly on the linoleum, looking like a small sphinx. Bobby then tossed Dean the bacon, which was snapped out of air and inhaled quickly. Behind Sam’s shock was a small voice that noted that Dean ate neater as a dog than he ever did as a human.

“What the hell, Bobby?” Sam demanded, standing up. His only thought that Bobby was treating Dean like nothing else but a dog, as if because his wrapping was different, he was any way less than human.

“Ah, sit back down before you hurt yourself,” Bobby snorted, twisting the fire off from under the eggs with a quick motion of his wrist. “Your brother is taking our advice and running with it.”

“What do you mean?” Sam said, sitting like Bobby told him to, but still thrumming with anger.

“Yesterday. I mentioned he could take the chance for a vacation and you agreed, didn’t you?” Not bothering to even see if Sam agreed, he bulldozed forward. “He’s set his humanity aside. You ask me he’s taking it too far, but you know how your brother is.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed shakily. “Never does anything halfway, does he?”

Bobby snorted and didn’t even bother responding.

Sam looked at Dean and called his name. Dean finally glanced over, and Sam called him over.

Dean padded his way to Sam, claws clicking on linoleum. Instead of stopping a couple feet away like Sam half expected, Dean went right up to Sam and rested his head on Sam’s knee, looking up with soulful brown eyes.

Sam sighed at Dean and scratched him behind his ears, having to smile slightly at the dopey, ecstatic expression on Dean’s face as he got one of the good spots.

“This isn’t healthy, is it?” Sam asked Bobby, his eyes still on Dean.

Bobby made a dismissive noise as while he finished making himself a plate. “I wouldn’t say so. Spent the whole morning trying to snap him out of it and no luck. Your brother got himself stuck.”

He turned away from the stove and towards the table. Dean always seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to food and he immediately jerked away from Sam’s lap, fawning over Bobby and getting in his way.

“Get down, ya mangy mutt,” Bobby grumbled affectionately. “Sam, get him a plate of eggs so I can eat my breakfast in peace.”

“Are you sure he can eat that?” Sam said, rising to his feet. “We’ve been making due with plain hamburgers and raw steaks these past couple days, I don’t want to make him sick or anything.”

“Boy, I’ve been raising dogs longer than you’ve been alive - give him the damn eggs. No more bacon though, too much and he will be sick.”

Sam put his hands up in submission and pulled down a plate from the cabinet and loaded it up with scrambled eggs. The second he put it within reach of Dean he was trying to snap it up, acting like he’d been starving for weeks, though Sam distinctly remembered the thick steak Dean’d inhaled the night before.

Watching Dean act like some sort of animal made Sam uncomfortable - it felt like he was losing his brother, but gaining a dog; a trade no sane person would ever make.

“So what are we going to do, Bobby?” Sam asked, worry a hollow ache in his gut.

Bobby didn’t even try to pretend not to know what Sam was asking about. “Take care of him,” he said. “Make sure he doesn’t get into anything he shouldn’t, give him food that wont kill him, play some fetch, and when his two weeks are up and he still thinks he’s a dog, we’ll cross that hurdle when we come to it.”

Sam nodded and forced himself to make himself a plate, worry turning the eggs to dust and the bacon to ash.

\--------

Sam had gotten used to a wholly-dog Dean faster than he thought he would. Thankfully he had some ‘training,’ though a part of Sam insisted that it was his still-human intelligence showing through. He knew basic commands, sit, stay, heel, though Sam tried not using them, feeling uncomfortable on the rare occasions they slipped out. He tried telling himself that he couldn’t help the occasional slip-up; Dean looked like a dog. He acted like a dog. Every time someone stopped by the salvage yard and saw Dean, they treated him like they would any other unfamiliar dog. Sam knew, however, that there was his brother buried deep within that canine mind, and did his best to remember that even while he tossed an old tennis ball for Dean to chase after.

Not to say he didn’t have fun from time to time - Dean was still spry for a dog and playful, and was willing to play fetch until Sam’s arm was tired and he collapsed in a panting pile on the dusty yard. He’d bring Dean with him on his occasional trips to town, and while Dean was lavished attention upon by young women and kids, Sam told him that his dog’s name was ‘Clifford,’ vague memories of story time in kindergarten rearing their Big Red heads.

Two weeks from their deal came and went in a blur, and finally the day arrived. Sam was trying not to remember that day just a couple years ago where another deal had come due.

He’d kept an eye on news reports, found out that construction had indeed halted in the elf’s woods, but he had no guarantee other than the elf’s word that Dean would be turned back to normal. The faerie folk were almost always true to their word, but every now and then they’d stick to the letter, and not the spirit, and leave whatever poor sap who made deals with them holding the bag. They were very much like demons in that regard, Sam mused darkly. Only little girls don’t dress up like demons for fun. Usually.

When the sun went down and Dean was still furry, Bobby joined Sam on the porch. Sam had been quiet the whole day, and even Dean was picking up on the tension. He didn’t seem to know what was wrong, but he kept close to Sam, refusing even to chase after a thrown ball in lieu of keeping his head planted firmly on Sam’s leg, or napping with his back pressed up against Sam’s calf and foot.

“He’s still got a few hours until we know if he‘s going to turn back or not,” Sam said, looking down at Dean and stroking his back.

Bobby nodded. “Fae like to be real punctual - if you agreed on the deal at ten at night two weeks ago, he wont change until ten. If you didn’t make the deal until eleven fifty-nine, he ain’t going to change back until eleven fifty-nine.”

Sam nodded. “That’s what I’m hoping for. God, Bobby, what if he changes back and he still thinks he’s a dog? What if he can’t find his way back?”

Bobby reached over and squeezed Sam’s shoulder, hard. Sam tried to draw the reassurance from the gesture that was meant, but familiar pessimism had wrapped Sam in it’s heavy shroud and was refusing to let him go.

“Come on inside, Sam,” Bobby said. “I don’t want your brother sitting on my porch wearing nothing but his skin when this curse of his is up.”

“Yeah,” Sam said softly. “Yeah, that’ll be best.” He rose to his feet and Dean was immediately up as well, looking up at Sam with the sort of devotion Sam always suspected but was never as blatantly shown. “Come on Dean, inside.” Immediately he winced, telling himself that Dean was not a dog, all evidence to the contrary.

Bobby held the door open for both Winchesters, and Sam went straight into the kitchen to grab a beer. He’d just taken a seat at the table, Dean at his feet as always, when Bobby reappeared, tossing a plaid bathrobe onto the table. It was ratty and threadbare, probably as old as Sam himself, but clean.

“For your brother,” Bobby grunted. He then grabbed himself a beer from the refrigerator and left, leaving Sam and Dean alone.

Sam was tossing back the dregs of his second beer when the pressure against his leg changed, becoming greater and skidding his booted foot a couple inches across the floor. He quickly scooted his chair back, stopping when it hit some resistance and he heard a pained exclamation by the floor.

Dean was back.

Sam took in the naked form of his brother, eyes wide with relief and heart in his throat. Dean was sitting on the linoleum, naked as the day he was born, looking dazed and rubbing his thigh where Sam had banged it with his chair. His hair was a mess like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks and he had a two-week growth of beard on his chin, but he was Dean, Sam’s brother, and at that moment the most beautiful person in the world.

“Dean…?” Sam said hesitantly. He watched as Dean sat up, legs akimbo and raised a hand to his face.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean said, his voice hoarse and raspy with disuse. “I’m me again.”

Sam couldn’t help himself - he pulled on Dean until he could haul him into a tight embrace, burying his face into Dean’s shoulder. “Oh God, Dean,” he rasped. “I thought I lost you.”

Dean was shaking like there was an earthquake beneath his skin, but he still managed to work a half up between them and push at Sam’s chest. “Hey, Princess, enough with the tears, alright?”

At that Sam really did start to cry, fat tears crawling down his cheeks and making his face splotchy and red, by no means the attractive crier Dean was. “C’mon man,” he choked out between sobs. “Let’s get you dressed.”


End file.
